Worlds End In Whimpers
by wapakalypse
Summary: After the war, after the fall, and after the fallout, Harry Potter is the Golden Boy no longer. He is no longer Dumbledore's Favourite, nor Voldemort's Bane. Now - now he is nothing, and that's alright by him. This is the way the world ends. H/D
1. Chapter 1

Title: Worlds End In Whimpers [1/?]

Pair: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy

Rating: R

Feedback: 'Tis food for the soul ~

I don't own anything you recognize, and probably a few of the things you don't. I don't own characters, locations, items, readers, nothing. I'm making no money off this, none at all, so suing would be fruitless.

A/N: Alrighty, so this marks my first ever foray into the world of fanfiction, and my first time writing in, well, a bit over a month. Hopefully it's up to snuff. I am, of course, rather nervous, so constructive criticism and similar things would be greatly appreciated. And, why yes - Harry's moods are swinging, let's just leave that up to the author to explain, yeah? ;]

A/N x2: Oh right, and as of now I don't have a beta. I'm not sure how those things work exactly, but I would probably benefit from having one methinks. So, ah, if anyone's interested, drop me a line? And be patient; I'm a fast learner, but this is uncharted territory more or less.

Harry fairly staggered through the door, relying heavily on various surfaces and edges to keep him upright. Shadows danced like ghosts across the sparsely furnished entranceway, lights from the outside casting the otherwise dark hall into sepia tones and monochrome. Harry's breathing was heavy, the sound echoing maddeningly against bare walls. There was nothing here. This was no home. He felt no need for cheap mass-produced paintings, or potted plants, or - or photographs. Especially photographs.

Vaguely, Harry registered that the longer he stood there, in the doorway, delaying the inevitable, the harder it would be to remove the blood that was at that very moment seeping into and staining his hardwood floor. Casting a quick _scourgify _over his shoulder and onto the street, Harry effectively eliminated the crimson trail of his guilt - the only proof that he had been there that night, stumbling through the London slums. He was nothing if not thorough.

The thought set a small, twisted smile to curl his lips. _That's one word for it._

Nodding, he took a moment to ensure that his legs could support him - his opponent had gotten in a good few hits before meeting his end, and Harry had no interest in staining the wall as well - before pushing off and walking, almost steadily, forward towards the doorway that led to the kitchen. One good thing about having no life, Harry thought, was the lack of clutter. Navigating his home was easy with any number of debilitating injuries, seeing as there were no obstacles, breathing or otherwise, to impede him, to question him. It was a bleak thought, but one that Harry clung to less and less these days; he found he no longer felt the need to explain himself, leastwise _to_ himself.

The kitchen was just as bare as the entranceway, and Harry was able to make his way to the sink fairly easily, even without light. The slightly heeled soles of his black boots clicked noisily against the polished tiles, the sound satisfying something baser and primal inside of Harry. As he walked, he trailed his hand along the surface of the gray granite countertop, leaving a trail of bloody fingerprints and palm-smears, and not caring.

The sink was a large, basin-like affair, made of the finest steel - stain resistant. Harry turned the faucet, waiting until steam was billowing from the near-boiling water, before shoving his hands under. It burned, so hot it was cold, and the water soaked into the sleeves of Harry's jacket, so he shrugged it off, leaving it sprawled on the floor, then returning his hands to the spray. He washed himself thoroughly, shivering when the water began to cool against his feverish skin. He felt alive, like electricity was crawling through his skin, crackling and filling him with unequivocal power. It always felt this way afterward; he felt charged, wired, and he knew that sleep would not come easily in such a state. He needed to get out, to do something - he needed to take the edge off.

That same, twisted little smile warped his face - it was more of a sneer really, lips pulled back, revealing two rows of even, off-white teeth - and Harry knew exactly what sort of extra-curricular activity he would be partaking in that particular night.

It took a total of thirty-seven minutes for Harry to make all of the necessary preparations. He took a quick shower - more for his benefit than anything else, if he was going to have to be awake and in his own skin, he'd prefer not smelling like death and judgment -, picked out a new, slightly lighter coloured and less conspicuous jacket, and retrieved a small vial of Polyjoice Potion from his store. The vial was tucked safely into his left hand pocket, his wand in the right (he didn't dare to go anywhere without it, these days), and was halfway through the entranceway when he paused, his heart jolting in his chest. He felt dizzy, and only had a moment to ponder why before it struck him - how could he have been so foolish?

Harry returned to the kitchen and bent down over his discarded trenchcoat, riffling through its many pockets. He found what he was searching for within seconds - he never placed the thing in a place he would be inclined to forget - and huffed a sigh of relief. The hand that wasn't holding his treasure carded through his damp hair, and he felt the object pulse. As if in response, his right side grew hot - _Hostile, _Harry thought - and the item in his hand pulsed thrice more, before falling still, and Harry tucked it into his left pocket, being careful not to jostle the Polyjuice - it certainly wouldn't do to waste.

"Do you do Polyjuice?" Harry asked. It had taken minimal time for him to apparate to Rochdale, and even less to locate a suitable establishment to fill his specific needs. The place had looked innocuous enough from the outside: a plain, slate coloured building, at home nestled amongst the other abandoned and similarly unused apartments and factories in what used to be a bustling suburb. The inside was little more striking, and could have easily been mistaken for some form of hotel waiting room, were it not for the number of posters plastering the walls, featuring young men and women of various races and creeds stroking and caressing their nude bodies, proudly proclaiming the services they offered.

The woman behind the counter nodded curtly, snapping her gum obnoxiously. She stared up at Harry with artificially blown pupils - he supposed it was supposed to make her appear more attractive, when it only served to remind him of an Inferi, or a number of otherwise soulless beings.

"Good," Harry said, placing the previously agreed upon payment on the countertop, and slid it over to the hostess. She smiled and collected the money, taking a moment to do a quick count - through time-honed willpower Harry managed to not roll his eyes, his last impulse would be to try to stiff a brothel a few pounds. He certainly had the money to spare -, then pointed him down a narrow hallway that Harry was sure hadn't been there earlier.

"Right down there love, only door on the left," she said, her voice was a horrible mockney. Harry hoped she wasn't a working girl - he couldn't imagine getting aroused by that screech. Nonetheless, he thanked her quietly and strode confidently down the hall. If she had any idea that this Harry - the tall, imposing, dark man with a wild glint in his eye - was Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World, she was a damned good actress, and never let on in the slightest. Likewise she didn't bat an eyelash when he. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, demanded a male consort. This wasn't the first time he'd partaken in this particular activity, after all, and certainly not the first time he had used a male. He figured that word spread fast - 'Harry Potter, Dumbledore's Favourite, visited a whorehouse? For a man?' - and had become old hack. Money was money. Harry's pounds were just as good as any others.

Reaching the single door, Harry waited for a moment. It would take a while for the potion to set in, and he had no desire to enter in mid transformation, lest the illusion be ruined. However, his patience was not what it used to be - not that it had been much then - and he quickly lost it, rapping on the door with one large hand. The answering voice was soft and smooth, aristocratic. Harry was hard instantly.

"Come in," it called. And Harry did, now moving very slowly. It seemed to him that any sudden movement, any unaccounted noise would shatter the scene before him, so he closed the door tenderly, and breathed in deeply. It was impossible to tell what colour scheme the room truly was, as it stood the walls, carpet, furniture, was bathed in blue and silver, the only light being that of the full moon, hanging like a silver dollar in the inky sky. White curtains - at least, Harry assumed they were white - billowed dreamily in some phantom breeze, bringing with them a fresh, invigorating scent. It must've been charmed, Harry thought, because nothing in Rochdale smelled that clean.

Finally, after drinking in the rest of the room - which was impressive, Harry had to admit, albeit grudgingly - he finally allowed his eyes to wander to the main attraction - a large, Victorian style bed, and the figure situated upon it. Harry's companion had remained motionless during his visual exploration, and did not move still. In fact, that, coupled with the man's divine beauty, could have almost fooled Harry into believing him a statue, were the gentle rise and fall of his chest not such a giveaway.

With that same gentle slowness, Harry approached the bed, reached out a hand and traced a fine cheekbone. The pale skin felt so soft under his calloused and labour-roughened hands. That night's potion must have been brewed from a particularly fine hair, Harry thought, watching the light and shadow play across angular features and turn gold to silver.

Some might have found in out of character for Harry Potter to fantasize about his childhood rival-come-nemesis, but, when Harry looked down and was met with a pair of liquid silver eyes, he found that he didn't quite care. At first Ginny had been the source of his fantasies and subsequent Polyjuice potions, but it had felt ... off, dirty, to be defiling her in that way. It had made him nauseous, and he found he could no longer continue, but he was just as incapable of stopping - he had to find a new donour, but who? The answer was obvious, given some thought: who was vile, evil and emotionally repugnant - Harry's perfect match? Whom did Harry not only not _mind_ defiling, but _craved_ to? And, if Harry were being honest with himself, who was gorgeous and well and truly fuckable?

Draco Malfoy.

Acquiring his hair had been an easy enough task as well. After the war, Lucius and Narcissa were out of the picture, and the Malfoy Mansion was evidence, uninhabitable. The younger Malfoy had taken off to God knows where and Harry, holding quite a bit of sway at that point, had only to hint at needing something from the mansion before he was granted complete, unrestricted access. He had taken a hairbrush from Draco's room, and begun the brewing that very night. Of course, there was always the risk that he'd enter the room to find Lucius or Narcissa instead, given the fact that the Malfoys were notorious for _sharing_ within the family, but it had yet to happen, and the need was so great and all-consuming that the risk seemed well worth it.

"Harry?" the non-Draco asked, breaking Harry from his reverie. He almost told the whore to shut his mouth, but stopped himself. Instead, he took a seat on the bed next to non-Draco, the plush bedding dipped under his weight, causing non-Draco to slide slightly toward him. When the blond was within reach, Harry wrapped an arm around his narrow shoulders, and non-Draco slid, snake-like onto Harry's lap. Non-Draco's long, slender legs were curled under his body, his arms wrapped around Harry's solid neck, as they sat, forehead to forehead.

There was something off in those silver eyes, something strange that Harry didn't feel like dissecting, so he flipped them around, non-Draco sinking into the bedding as Harry loomed over him, braced on his elbows and knees.

Then they kissed. It wasn't mind-blowing. It wasn't the best kiss Harry had ever had, and birds didn't begin to sing, nor did he feel his heart pick up and do a jig - but there was something. Not a spark, or a flame - but something. Non-Draco, it seemed, was not one to lay back and take it, and for that Harry was glad - he hated that, hated how it served as a reminder that this _wasn't_ Draco. The whore's mouth tasted like saliva and tobacco, mirroring Harry's, and Harry growled, snagging a plump, lower lip between his teeth and tangling his hands in gold-silver hair. Non-Draco writhed under his larger body, arching and pulling and _needing._ Harry could feel his cock, hard against his stomach, every time non-Draco moved it dragged a wet trail across his abs.

Grinding down heavily, Harry earned his first sound - a moan, low and guttural, the kind that comes involuntarily from deep in one's throat - and he needed more. So he repeated the action, and sure enough he was rewarded with another moan, this time Harry swooped low and swallowed it, muffling the subsequent sounds of pleasure as he continued circling his hips, forcing non-Draco's bared erection to scrape roughly against Harry's still clothed groin - not that the whore was complaining.

Their tongues twisted and snaked around each other, a feigned battle for dominance. Harry knew that, when the chips were down, he would come out on top, but he was enjoying the challenge. Teeth clacked and hands wandered and Harry had almost forgotten to remove his glasses, but after some thought decided to keep them on. He didn't want to miss this. Non-Draco made the most exquisite expressions when in the throes of pleasure, in the depths of pain, and Harry pulled back a smidge, pleased when non-Draco gave a high whine and tried to follow his mouth, but dissolved into a full-out keen when Harry's rough hands found his nipples. The touch was harsh, inconsiderate, but non-Draco didn't seem to mind, he arched against Harry's fingers, gasping.

Casting a glance at the bedside clock, Harry decided it was time to get down to business - he had only an hour, after all.

In a single fluid moment he sat back onto his haunches then pulled first his jacket, then his t-shirt off. Non-Draco rose part-way with him, resting himself on his forearms, reaching forward to straighten out Harry's spectacles when they had gone askew. Vision clearing once again, Harry gaze was met with one of stormy gray - still oddly discerning, as though gears were turning. It was making Harry uncomfortable, so he once again pressed non-Draco into the comforter, nestling his face in the creamy pale skin as he wiggled out of his boots first, then trousers. He wasn't wearing any boxers.

From this vantage point, he was surrounded by the smell of non-Draco, and oh _Merlin_ the potion had even gotten that right. Even after all these years he smelled the same: like sun and vanilla soap.

, so, like any hot-blooded man, wizard, or beast would, Harry entered the pliant body below him in one long thrust - however, unlike any hot-blooded man or beast, Harry muttered a quick lubrication spell before breaching, not so much for the whore's comfort than his own. Non-Draco moaned loudly for every inch that was embedded in him, until Harry was balls' deep, grunting out his own pleasure.

The whore was given little time to brace himself before Harry was pounding hard and fast into his spasming body, using the sheets and non-Draco's hair alternatively for leverage. For his part, non-Draco gave as good as he got, pushing back to meet each brutal thrust, placing breathy, open-mouthed kisses along Harry's neck and jawline as they moved in perfect synchronicity.

This Draco, Harry somehow found the presence of mind to think, looked especially beautiful when Harry nailed his prostate, and so Harry made it his business to do so on every inward thrust. Non-Draco's fingers were scrabbling about on his back and hips, desperate for purchase, as his legs kicked wildly, pelvis nailed to the mattress by Harry's powerful body, toes curling. With one hand, Harry swept up both of the whore's wrists, and held them up against the pillow, rendering him nearly immobile - helpless against Harry's onslaught.

Their eyes locked, and this - this was where things always went wrong.

This was the part where Harry released non-Draco's wrists, instead using that hand to wrap around non-Draco's cock, pumping in time with Harry's slowing thrusts. This was the part where Harry's free hand smoothed up the whore's flank, feeling his rapid breathing expand and contract that narrow ribcage, and trace ever-so-gently across non-Draco's sharp jawline, nuzzling into his neck and planting hot kisses against the juncture of neck and shoulder.

This was the part where Harry came, shuddering, deep within the whore's body, giving a few quick pulls to make sure non-Draco was brought off as well.

This was the part where no words were spoken, and Harry carefully removed himself from the well-used entrance, watching with some satisfaction as his own still-warm spend dripped from non-Draco's hole, pooling on the comforter. He got dressed without sparing the whore another glance, and left. He didn't look at the clock either, he didn't want to see how close he had come to breaking the illusion.

This time, however, words were spoken. One word: quiet and tentative from the direction of the bed: "Harry?" and Harry turned back to take one last look, his body half out of the door. The whore was sitting on his haunches, watching Harry with that same indescribable expression on his face. Harry turned away then, shutting the door behind him and exiting the establishment. The woman at the front's shift had ended, and in her place was a younger woman - a girl, really - and Harry felt a stirring of discomfort in his gut.

It wasn't until halfway up the stairs, safe in his own house - because it was certainly no home - that Harry realized the source of his unease. The whore, the non-Draco - he had known his name.

A/N x3: Whew, and there was my first ever attempt at erotica too. Eheh, not all that hot, but it got the job done ... I'm gonna stop talking now.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Worlds End In Whimpers [2/?]

Pair: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy

Rating: R

Feedback: 'Tis food for the soul ~

A/N: Wow, I live! Dreadfully sorry for the long wait, and though I wish I could promise that it wont happen again, that would be a lie. You can take comfort in that fact that I'm in love with this story though, and therefore very unlikely to give it up.

Anyway, enjoy ~

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Despite his activities of earlier that night, sleep remained elusive - more of a light doze than any real, revitalizing rest - and Harry awoke with silver-gold spiderwebs entangling his thoughts. His limbs were reluctant to move, it felt as though he had performed some great exertion and was just then paying for it. A ridiculous notion, as the fight the night prior had been routine at best, and - and the visit to the brothel had been ... eventless.

Or at least, Harry _could_ believe that, were he blind, deaf and dumb.

Perched on the edge of his bed, Harry muffled a groan in his palms, hunching forward over his knees. This was somehow that whore's fault, and Harry knew it. He also knew that there was no possible way for him to get _anything _done with his mind so splintered, and that - that was unacceptable. He had accepted long ago that this lifestyle would last until he died, and whether that was sooner or later he wasn't particularly concerned, and it took no days off; it didn't understand the concept of 'sick days' or 'psychological duress'. No, all it concerned itself with was Harry's making of his own, self-imposed quota.

And that was that, as far as Harry was concerned: he would have to pay that same whorehouse another visit as soon as the opportunity arose. Later today, tonight.

The effect was immediate and palpable, Harry felt his mind clear and his muscles unknit. Calm settled over his mind like a blanket. It felt nice to have a plan, a course of action - from Harry's experience, one was far more likely to succeed when following a path, regardless of whether the path was followed directly.

With a grunt and the alarming crackle of joints and bone, Harry stretched his arms up over his head, tilting first to the right, then the left. He briefly considered simply spelling away his aches and pains, before deeming that unnecessary - that was what potions were for, after all. In the nightstand to the left of Harry's bed, under a false-bottom and covered in shredded gauze, were a variety of potions for near any ailment, both magical and non. Reaching out with his mind, tendrils of quicksilver magical essence curling and writhing like serpentine fingers, Harry carded through the nightstand's contents, frowning at the number of empties. He would have to restock soon. Thankfully, near the back, hidden by a trio of empty tubs of Scaradicate Salve, was the potion for which Harry was looking.

Magic took the bottle in hand, magic shook it loose from its confines. Before the bottle of Pain Numbing Potion could reach Harry's hand, the cap had been unscrewed and discarded, and in three long pulls its contents were drained. The bitter liquid should have burned Harry's throat, but he was numbed to its unpleasantness, just as his body was soon numbed to its pain.

Feeling infinitely better, Harry got to his feet. He thought, not for the first time, that it might be in his best interest to change rooms, houses even. Start fresh. It wasn't like he needed all the space - all the empty space, swarming with the ghosts of and love and dreams and hope. But he knew, just as he always did, that that was simply not an option; despite the lack of love, dreams and hope the house now boasted, Harry didn't think he could bear to part with the memories.

So, he trooped across the room and dug through his dresser; nothing too formal, of course, but still presentable to the general public - he did have to work. Settling on a pair of black jeans, a gray sweatshirt, and a pair of nondescript black socks, Harry entered the obscenely large bathroom and changed, using the location choice to take care of his bladder, morning breath, and two day stubble almost simultaneously. Staring at the spot on the wall where the mirror should have been, Harry raked his fingers through the dreadful tangle that was his hair three times before deeming it acceptable. Of course, he had not a clue what he looked like - he hadn't for a while - but as long as his presence still brought appreciative stares rather than disgusted, he figured all was well.

By the time Harry found his way to the kitchen, he was wide awake and primed to face the day. With a plate of hot, fresh from the wand eggs and sausage in front of him, perched on his favourite stool, Harry sat at the detached island portion of his kitchen, watching the morning news with a sense of dull satisfaction. On the screen, an attractive female news anchor reported another in the series of murders that had London in an uproar.

_" ... A Mr. Charles Dimpley was found dead in an alley early this morning; the cause seems to have been severe blunt force trauma, followed by mild exsanguination. As with the murders prior, the culprit has left no clue as to his or her identity. The questions on everyone's minds are: who is this 'Hollow Man', where will he strike next, and - should we really stop him? ... "_

With a satisfied grunt, Harry flicked the television off. That was all he needed to hear. Of _course _the incompetent police force had no leads - Harry wasn't some mindless, sightless brute. He had finess, he had style - he had a mission, and no damnable muggle police chief was going to keep him from his goal. _Mild _exsanguination? Harry could have laughed. He had bled the bastard dry, taking utmost pleasure from his weak struggle, stood back and watched as the light from those child raping eyes fled. By now, Harry was sure, that light had been relocated to somewhere considerably iwarmer/i, if one believed in things like retribution and hell. Harry did, the thought of a heaven for the innocent was the only thing keeping him sane these days.

For the following two hours, Harry retreated back to his room and study, poring distractedly over ancient texts and practicing intricate wandwork with his favoured wand. Like an old friend their presences melded to one, it beating a steady rhythm into Harry's palm, mimicking that of his own heart.

At nine-thirty sharply, Harry rose, bundled himself into a moderately heavy coat, and ventured the blustery London autumn. It was hard to believe that the relatively warm months of summer had already slipped by; scarcely a leaf had yet to fall from the boughs of trees and bushes alike, though their veins were tinted with a sickly yellow, warning of the winter frost to come. The weather, however, had wasted no time in showing its approval for the colder season, sending gale after gale of frigid air down on poor, unsuspecting citizens, causing vendors to pack up their wares that had previously rambled out onto the sidewalk, and young children to gaze up at the slate gray clouds, hoping for snow.

As it was, the streets were empty. The gray of the clouds echoed around Harry as he made his solitary way down an empty street, hands buried in his pockets and face downturned against the wind. It would have been simpler to just Apparate, and had it at all been an option Harry would have grasped it emphatically and without thought. Though admittedly, the walk wasn't that long.

Within minutes Harry had arrived at his destination, sighing with relief at the reprieve from the elements. He was greeted by a warm 'Oi, Harry!' from a forty-something year old man sitting behind a counter at the rear of the shop. Mr. Henessey - or Ziggy, as he preferred to be called, though Harry was sure his real name was George - was Harry's flowerchild, tree-hugging boss. A man who, even in this weather, wore a pair of probably hemp shorts and worn beige sandals. A man who was married to a woman named Starlight and had three kids: Freedom, Ocean, and Gary.

"Hey Ziggy," Harry replied, causing the older man to beam. It had taken some getting used to, calling his boss by his, alleged, first name after a lifetime of 'professor' and 'headmaster's, but he found he quite liked the sense of equality it suggested.

"The Gates' project is waiting upstairs for you my boy, just where you left it."

Harry nodded and smiled a small smile before taking Ziggy's leave and heading upstairs. The Gates' project was a large mahogany work-desk; the wood was dark, warm and one hundred percent pure mahogany. It felt smooth and welcoming under Harry's rough palms, and he could scarcely wait to get back to work. He loved carpentry, loved the feeling of the wood beneath his fingers, the hard, solidness of it, and the fact that Harry could manipulate its shape, it's design, turn it from a shapeless mass into something of beauty - vision and creation. He loved the anonymity of his craft, the idea that his customer had never met him face-to-face, _would _never meet him face to face, but appreciate his talent - because he _did _have talent - all the same.

He wasn't sure how long he worked that day, several hours at the least. Vaguely, he heard the bell ring once, then twice, signaling the arrival and departure of a customer. It wasn't just custom jobs they did here, there was a variety of premade furniture and this-n-thats downstairs where Ziggy reigned; however, Harry vastly preferred the more choosy patrons, the ones who demanded quality, and a personal touch. Twice, Ziggy entered Harry's field of awareness, first to remind the younger man to eat - to which Harry nodded, waiting until his boss was safely out of sight before casting a quick charm to fill his stomach with food. A roast beef sandwich, he believed - and the second to offer up a sample of a batch of brownies that Starlight had baked the night previous - _normal _brownies, he assured Harry -, which Harry eagerly accepted.

By the end of the day, having made quite a bit of headway, Harry felt confident that the desk would be done by the weekend, far earlier than both he and his customers had first expected. Feeling rather proud of himself, Harry yelled a quick goodbye to Ziggy on his way out the door, and once again plunged into the ice-like autumn air.

Immediately, his mood darkened. Around him the wind whipped and snapped at his exposed skin, playing with his hair like a feisty lover.

_Feisty lover._ Harry had business that night.

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The building was even less populated than usual, if that were even possible. Harry approached the front desk with an air of authority, causing the girl - boy, Harry corrected himself as the young man looked up - to acknowledge him immediately.

"How can I help you sir?" he asked, his voice smooth and low, expression vacant.

"Yes," Harry replied firmly. "I need a particular service-"

"-Certainly, we offer a variety of-"

"-A particular service," Harry repeated, with more force, "from a particular ... employee," he finished lamely, unsure of how to address a person of their ... profession.

"Ah, I see," the boy nodded, brows cinched in the center as though he was having trouble following the conversation. _That's what you get for getting stoned on the job_, Harry thought, bitterly. "Can you describe him or her for me?"

Harry paused, lips twisting in thought. He hadn't thought of this. How was he meant to describe his choice, when he hadn't the slightest how he looked. "I, err, no. He was - and he was a he - he was under Polyjuice," Harry fumbled. "I had him yesterday."

To this the boy nodded. "Not a problem sir." He took a long look at Harry, then switched his gaze to the screen of a computer, fingers flying over the keyboard. "Here he is, yes," he said slowly, brows still furrowed. Harry fought the impulse to forcefully smooth them out. "He seems to be occupied at the moment, but if you could wait a few minutes he'll be free shortly I'm sure. Just hand me your Polyjuice." Hand burrowed into his left pocket, Harry hissed as it came into contact with the pocket's other occupant, before retrieving the vial and handing it over.

"Very good sir," the boy said, gesturing to a series of neon plastic-wrapped monstrosities that could have passed for chairs. The moment Harry took a seat, the boy seemed to deflate, crossing his arms on the counter in front of him and resting his head on their crook, perhaps to escape the harsh glare of fluorescent lighting.

On the table in front of Harry was a pile of haphazardly stacked magazines. Most of them were dated, but none risque; in fact, they were so out of place that Harry had to stifle a laugh. Golfer's Digest, House & Garden, Hello!, The Book Collector - the type of things one would expect to find in the waiting room at the dentist's. Harry opted to stare at the wall.

Eventually, Harry became aware of a disturbance in the peripheral of his mind. Belatedly, he realized the boy at the counter was attempting to get his attention.

"Sir ... sir!" he repeated, noting Harry's sudden return to lucidity. He made a facial expression that Harry expected was meant to be a smile, and pointed at the door that certainly hadn't been there previously. "Your appointment's up." Nodding curtly, Harry rose from his seat and strode purposely down the hall, until he reached the end of the receptionist's eyesight, wherein he slowed his pace, feeling his heart inexplicably pick up. Through the thick fabric of his jacket, he could feel a steady pulse of heat, familiar and comforting, but thoroughly out of place. Usually, the object only reacted when Harry was practicing spells, being warm to an almost unbearable level only when he was going in for a kill. Shrugging this phenomena off as another of the item's mystery, Harry decided he had more important things to deal with presently. The foremost concerning the door now right in front of him.

With hands that were certainly not shaking, Harry eased the door open, stepping immediately into the familiar room. It seemed as though nothing had changed from the night prior, everything laid out exactly as he had remembered, including the exquisite body positioned on the bed. Harry's eyes traversed the smooth, pale skin, tracing the serpentine line of scar tissue decorating his midsection and fairly caressing the long, graceful arch of neck before coming to rest on a pair of thin pink lips. Lips which were currently quirked into an utterly Draco-esque smirk. Harry felt his own heat spike at the sight. Gray eyes were fixed upon him, and even they seemed to have a mischievous life to them that had been absent up until now. Harry fairly felt lightheaded, he wondered dumbly if the whore had gone off and done research into his role because really, now that Harry's mind was on that track, even the pose with which non-Draco sat screamed of - well - Draco.

It probably shouldn't have been so much of a turn-on. In school, Harry had never been attracted to - or even amused - by Draco's sense of superiority or scathing wit, but now, seeing this stranger with the familiar face twisted into the even more familiar expression, Harry was fairly ready to jump him then and there. In fact, he had already decided what their activity for that evening would be.

In three long strides Harry was in front of the bed, and non-Draco had risen to meet him. Standing eye to eye - they were nearly the same height, despite non-Draco's legs, which seemed to go on forever - Harry was confronted with a look of such _knowing _that he felt his blood boil. What did this _whore _know? So what if Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World was lusting after the son of a Death Eater, and getting his jollies off in a brothel? What right did anyone, him least of all, have to judge? Harry had saved them - all of them - but no one, no one had bothered to save _him_. Unable to look at that damned smirk any longer, Harry forced the whore to his knees with one firm push, set on putting that mouth to much better use.

Without preamble, Harry's trousers were unbuttoned and slid down to his ankles by deft fingers, and his aching manhood was enveloped in a far too professional mouth. Instantly, Harry was lost, knees braced and fingers threaded through fine silver hair, tugging and releasing. non-Draco's hands ran lovingly up and tone Harry's thick thighs, mimicking the rhythm set by his mouth, every two or three bobs, one would dart upwards and roll Harry's balls, or slip under his shirt to tweak a nipple. The scent of male arousal hung heavy in the air, and Harry hadn't the need to look down to know that non-Draco was getting off on this.

Though not as much as Harry himself. With slow, steady movements, using non-Draco's hair as reigns, he began to fuck the whore's mouth, grunts and groans dropping from his lips in tandem with the wet sucking and choking noises rising from the blond's. It felt so good, too good, a skilled little tongue darting out and in and up and down, hands wandering and clutching and kneading, and too soon Harry felt a telltale tingling low in his belly.

It took all of Harry's resolve and willpower to pull non-Draco to his feet, then push him backwards until he was sprawled on the bed. Then, Harry took a moment to look, because really - how could he not? Pale skin, flushed from exertion, a lack of oxygen, and no small amount of arousal, with a backdrop of sheets that were probably navy, but could have been almost any colour on the darker end of the scale. White-blond hair was tousled and sweat slicked, long in the front and shorter in the back, non-Draco's fringe lay messily about his face, a single strand caught on moist pink lips that were no longer quite so thin. He was the perfect picture of debauchery, and oh, but Harry wanted to debauch.

With all the grace of a predator, Harry followed non-Draco, settling his body over the whore's, kicking his trousers and pants off the remainder of the way as he did so. Harry's broader pelvis bracketing the whore's more slender hips. Resting the majority of his weight on his forearms, Harry leant forward to capture those same lips in a chaste kiss. Rising, Harry pressed non-Draco back into the bed with a palm on his sternum when he tried to follow.

Harry shifted himself around, careful not to land an elbow or knee anywhere valuable, stopping when he was positioned on his hands and knees over non-Draco, his face hovering over the whore's slender cock, while his own bobbed heavily over the blond's face. Harry groaned, a series of blunt fingernails ran teasingly over the taut skin of his abdomen, and non-Draco echoed the noise as Harry's warm exhalation puffed against his dripping head.

Knowing he wouldn't be able to last too long with such a responsive body underneath him, Harry dropped his head, taking non-Draco down to the root, causing the blond to buck his hips and fairly howl with pleasure. Tears sprung to Harry's eyes as his airway was blocked then cleared, blocked then cleared, until non-Draco had calmed himself, and only then did he continue, resting himself once more on his elbows and sliding his hands under non-Draco's hips to cradle his arse. Impatiently, he thrust his own hips downward, feeling his cockhead brush against a smooth cheek until non-Draco caught the hint.

Then, there was nothing.

Nothing save for white-hot pleasure. Subconsciously, Harry was quite proud of himself for keeping up his own performance while surrounded by such wet, hot stimulus - damn, but that boy knew how to suck. For a time the only noise in the room were twin sets of groans, moans and the rare expletive. non-Draco began to whimper, making weak thrusting motions with his hips, and Harry knew the whore was reaching his end. Softly, he ran one big palm from non-Draco's arsecheek to his crack, and began massaging the tight ring of muscle he found there. non-Draco's whines increased in pitch and volume, vibrating Harry's cockhead and urging him forward - this was going to be over soon, and he'd be damned if he didn't push non-Draco over the edge with him. The fingers of his left hand still circling the blond's hole, his right came up to cradle his balls, running through the coarse blond hair and tracing over a small scar a centimeter or so off-center. The three remaining brain cells of Harry's that weren't bogged down with pleasure rallied that they'd never seen that scar before, but the rest of Harry's consciousness couldn't have cared less, concerned only with the rapidly building pressure that soon came rushing through his body in a torrent.

Letting non-Draco's cock slip free from his mouth, Harry cried out - a loud wordless shout - and reflexively flexed his hand, pressing two fingers into non-Draco's arse. This little bit of pain tinted pleasure seemed to be all the blond needed, as he was then moaning and arching off the bed as his own release blackened the edges of his vision.

Feeling sated and boneless, Harry collapsed onto his side, breathing deeply. non-Draco seemed to be in much the same state, though Harry felt chilly fingers softly stroking his calf, bloody talented fingers running through the sparse hair. Harry too began making abstract figures on non-Draco's body, tracing vaguely through the rapidly cooling pool of cum on the blond's belly. This felt good. It had been a long time since Harry had enjoyed a proper post-orgasmic haze, and -

- and this was no proper post-orgasmic haze. Harry was up like a shot, apparently starling non-Draco, who then scowled at him from his place, half propped up on the bed. Without making eye contact, Harry pulled his trousers and pants back on and fairly jogged to the door.

Halfway through, Harry was stopped once more. Flashes of deja vu swept through his mind, but nonetheless the brunet turned toward the whispered, 'Harry'. This time, however, the whore was looking at him in that infuriatingly knowing way, and he barely managed to gather his wits in time to catch the object that had been thrown at him. The door clicked shut, blocking Harry's view of anything other than poorly maintained wood, blocking Harry's mind from anything but the solid weight in his hands. He looked down, it was the vial of Polyjuice, the same one from that evening, except - except. It was full.

Eyes wide and panicked, Harry looked up. The door was gone.


End file.
